


Immortals

by AiLaikJedi



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Anubis - Freeform, Clexa, Confused!Lexa, Egyptian god au, Egyptology, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, Historical, Historically Inaccurate, Just you wait - Freeform, Modern AU, Multi, Multi Chapter, Mummies, Mythology - Freeform, Prepare for the worst history lesson of your life, Slow Burn, Supernatural - Freeform, Tags Are Hard, The 100 - Freeform, These Tags Are Getting Ridiculous, artist!Clarke, characters will be added as they come, puns galore, raunchy!raven, rom com with action, tourney, who let the dogs out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AiLaikJedi/pseuds/AiLaikJedi
Summary: After a series of unfortunate events, Clarke gets an impossible assignment in her art class involving a replica of an Ancient Egyptian artifact.One night, she wakes in a fever dream and realizes she's accidentally summoned the God(dess) of the Underworld, Anubis.She's pulled into the world of Egyptian gods and fairy tales from the history books. Branded by the powerful being, she must help her win back her immortality.OrThe Egyptian God AU literally no one asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please beware as this work will be incredibly punny, almost all of the time. (Practically unbeta'd. Mistakes are my own.)

"Alright, class," her professor's voice is booming throughout the small class. One thing Clarke hates about this class is not that her professor is often overzealous about terrible artwork, (which he totally is) but how loud and overtaking he is when he didn't need to be. This is her last class of the day, her unwinding. Somehow, she always manages to block it out and just do her craft, but today, he's grinding down her nerves more than usual. 

  


(How could someone take a class like drawing 307 and turn it into a botched musical everyday and get away with it? Her first day of class, she originally thought the long, twine-like, shaped mustache and topiary-esque hair were personal choices but everything about him created a character.) 

  


"Before you, you will find the object of your affections for the next two and a half months." The professor's eyes gleamed proudly, "I have carefully selected a subject for your still-life portfolios, for this semester." He excitedly walks around the room, hands rubbing together with enough friction to cause a fire. Clarke swears she sees a tear falling from his left eye. 

  


"Now, without further ado, lift those covers and commit life to canvas!" His back arches at an unnatural angle that makes Clarke's eye twitch as he flings himself back with drama saved only for the theater. 

  


Yeah, he's a bit eccentric. Loves the flare. 

  


Her eyes tour the room as she notices everyone else's covers seem to be larger, much fuller and shapely underneath. She prays for a colorful, overflowing, lavish bowl of fruits. However, today of all days, Clarke Griffin should know better than to wish for luck. 

  


Because what she gets is essentially a rock. 

  


Now, maybe Clarke's being a bit hasty in her judgement, but it's worn and has very little pattern or definitive features. She picks it up, eyeballing it, running her hand over the texture, or lack thereof. She turns it over, finding a piece of blue painters tape barely clinging to the surface. Upon it, it reads "Replica Egyptian Talisman." For a replica, it doesn't feel like plaster (and Clarke knows what replicas feel like from her entry level archeology class she took freshman year for an easy A that turned out to be a nightmare, but she nevertheless _knows_ ), and certainly has no details to show historical accuracy. Whoever made this replica, should never make another replica of anything again because she's basically holding a skipping stone with a couple of scratches on it. 

  


She turns it in her fingers again before looking up at the presence above her smiling cheekily down at her. "Dare I say, you're the only one genius enough to pull this off, Clarke." His eyes widen with amusement and expectancy and she swears he almost falls out of, what she surely knows to be, a fake British accent. 

  


Trying not to reveal the scowl on her face, she forces her lips into a tight lipped smile that nearly grinds her teeth. "Of course, Professor Diavolo." Her eyes squint with her smile which she holds for an uncomfortably long amount of time, until she feels his lingering stop. She waves her hand in front her nose a few times as soon as he's gone, ridding herself of the overly perfumed left in his wake. 

  


Diavolo goes into greater detail regarding their assignment after encroaching in every students' personal bubbles. It's a Junior level class, and they have to get creative with their positioning and framing. Clarke wonders how she's supposed to make a nearly perfectly symmetrical object look different at all, let alone interesting. It's why she prefers her abstract design class more these days. 

  


Of course, all of this wouldn't be so bad, had she been able to sleep last night at all, but coming up on what she referred to as her "Doom's Day" every year meant that she wouldn't get any rest and would have a begrudging day, as always on her actual day of doom. That day, which was today. The anniversary of her parents' deaths. 

  


It happened a month after she turned eighteen, to the very day and left her with a considerably large fortune under her belt. Nothing soothed the pain of losing her parents and after partying, skydiving, and traveling around the world for two years, she went to college to pursue her passion and the only thing that allowed her to feel and process anymore: art. Her mother would have much rather her went to med school and become a successful surgeon like her, but Clarke never had a passion for it. While some may think that should have estranged them, it brought their family closer. It made losing them harder for Clarke, but she was the daughter of an entrepreneur and a highly respected medical professional and that meant she had a fire burning within her, driving her towards the future. 

  


But even that fire could not save her from the day she was having. 

  


For starters, as she walked out the door this morning, it poured buckets and buckets of rain and Clarke was without an umbrella. Granted, she's not the type to check the forecast regularly, but her normal peek out the window gave her sunshine and a literal cloudless sky. The odds of rain were near perfect zero. Yet, somehow, someway, she was completely drenched by her first class. 

  


To make it worse, the strap on her backpack gave way en route to her last class from her second class of the day. She stepped in gum, in her brand new shoes, and to top it all off, she's given the worst assignment in the history of assignments. 

  


But she has a fire, she reminds herself with a not-so-calming breath as she taps at her father's wrist watch adorning her own. She'll figure it out. She always does. 

  


  


  


\--

  


  


  


It's midday by the time Clarke strides into her off campus apartment. She unceremoniously drops her backpack with a loud thump while she removes her shoes. A long, tired groan from the couch tells her that her roommate is home and very hungover. 

  


  


"Raven, it's 3:30, have you been there all day?" She tiredly slumps down beside her and receives only another long groan of protest. 

  


Tentatively, Clarke picks up a pencil from the coffee table and pokes Raven in the shoulder. "Hello," she drawls out, somewhat louder, "Earth to Reyes." 

  


A series of mumbled, unintelligible curse words fly from the couch, before she exasperatingly heaves her head up from the couch with great strength, "Shut up, Houston." Her head immediately falls back to the couch with a loud smack to the leather cushion. Clarke gives up and sits back against the sectional, head propped against the back, shoulders sagging wearily. 

  


"You're the worst friend ever, I hope you know that." She trains her eyes on the ceiling. 

  


Without much urgency, Raven turns her head to the side, cheek dragging along the cushion until it's smooshed to it as she speaks, "you take that back." She glares through pulled eyelids and rings beneath them. 

  


"I'm in the throes of my dooms day and here you are, passed out on the couch." 

  


"I'm perfectly conscious, Princess." The brunette rebuts, "but you're right. I am terrible." She blinks slowly and smacks her lips together groggily, her mouth dry like cotton. "God my mouth tastes like ass. What did you let me drink last night?"

  


Clarke moves her head to the side and blankly stares at her sorry excuse for a friend, "well, let's see. Pretty sure you drained the entire liquor cabinet. Started with rumple mints and then transitioned to tequila because, and I quote 'I am a bad ass Mexican bitch, give it to me or muertate.'" She pauses, and then adds, "you were holding a knife." (To be fair, she was cutting the limes, but a little guilt couldn't hurt this scenario right now.)

  


"Fair point." Raven attempts to get up, but her arms are like wet noodles. She collapses back to the couch before speaking directly into the leather, "five more minutes and I'll be your best friend again, Scout's honor."

  


"You were never a Girl Scout."

  


A deep sigh from the couch is as good of a segue as any, so Clarke gets up to peruse through the refrigerator. She doesn't inherently want to have a bad day on the anniversary of her parents deaths, but it just always ends up happening. Maybe it's a twisted self fulfilling prophecy born out of a place of deep-rooted, somewhat concealed self-loathing, but whatever the case it always seemed to be bad. Often, she buried herself in sketches, took the day to herself, binge watched a tv-show, and turned into a human sloth. However, for two years running, ever since she had lived with Raven, the brunette insisted on her getting out, living, and trying to forget through alcohol and _experiences_ (experiences here is defined in the Raven Reyes dictionary as sexual encounters so good, they're from another dimension).

  


But even last night, she couldn't find solace in that type of healing, and retired to her bed a little after midnight while the party thrown in her honor raged beyond her door. 

  


She pulls out the ingredients for a grilled cheese, buttering her bread before flipping down two pieces of cheese. When it's done, she grabs a couple of pickles and retreats into her room with a beer. 

Her room is a solace, a safe place and sanctuary for her demons. Her fairy lights fight them off and give an ambience amidst her varied portraits hanging from the walls. Her bed is a conglomeration of pillows and throws that always threaten to beckon her back in when she's feeling particularly low. She has sketch books of all different sizes in her room. Many are half empty, some completely full of hateful attempts to remember everything in her life she hopes she can never forget. 

  


Clarke browses a couple of websites, checks the news, and eats her sandwich in relative silence. When she's finished, she wipes her buttery fingers on her lap and sighs heavily. She glances to her bag on the floor and tries to ignore her homework. It works for only so long before she lugs her bag, after a few failed attempts to hook the broken strap on her foot from her chair, reluctantly, dragging it on the hardwood. Once it's open, she pulls out the replica artifact and sits it on her desk. 

  


Squinting at the writing, she blows on it a few times, removing remnants of dirt, or _something_ from it to get a better look. She turns her desk lamp on, sitting the object down before picking up her pencil and sketch pad. She'll find a way to make this interesting no matter what. 

  


A few hours pass before a yawn comes from her doorway where Raven stands disheveled, scratching her back letting her shirt ride up. "I know I'm an awful Girl Scout, but I'm ordering Chinese. Want your usual?" Her bare feet pad into the room as she leans her arm on the back of Clarke's chair. 

  


"Suddenly taking up geology, Griffin?"

  


"It's my stupid," heavy stroke, "fucking," heavier stroke, "project." Her teeth are gritted together as she speaks, frustration seeping from her bones. Raven's brows shoot to her hairline. "I'll take that as a yes on the food." She takes in the piles of scattered, crumpled pieces of paper, and mouths 'yikes' before leaving the room. 

  


Clarke heaves a sigh of frustration and digs the palms of her hands into her eyes before throwing her pencil across the room. 

  


  


  


\--

  


  


  


When the delivery people say, "ten minutes," they mean ten minutes, and that's exactly how long it takes before Clarke finds her way to the couch. She's greeted by a luxurious array of dishes. 

  


"Tonight!" Raven begins dramatically, "tonight we dine in honor of our lady Clarke de Griffin." She raises a styrofoam cup full of wine and her accent is terribly not French but it still doesn't stop the small smile on Clarke's lips from forming. "Now please, drink and be merry, but most of all eat until you can't feel feelings." There's chicken on a stick, orange chicken, mushu pork, Mongolian beef, crab rangoons and fried rice.

  


"Wow you really went all out." Clarke whistles, loading her plate with a little bit of everything. 

  


Raven's mid-bite of a chicken skewer when she answers, "gluttony is my favorite sin.” She digs into the Mushu pork, straight from the carton, struggling blatantly with her chopsticks. 

  


Clarke giggles slightly from her position on the couch and muses to herself that she's pretty lucky to have stumbled upon Raven a few years ago. No one could make her feel better like this so effortlessly. They truly cared for each other on a level that was only reserved for family. 

  


“Don’t go getting all soft on me over there, Griffin.” The brunette smirks as if she can see the thoughts bubbling out of her blonde hair. Picking up the remote from the floor, Raven tosses it towards Clarke, “now come on and put on something raunchy.” 

  


And through a mouthful of food, Clarke smiles and realizes she’s blessed to have someone like this on her very own dooms day. 

  


  


  


—

  


  


For the next three days, Clarke gives up on drawing, busying herself with her other classwork and sleeping. 

  


She even lets Raven drag her to a party. Or two. 

  


Or three. (Only to stop Raven's constant comments about her still being single.)

  


She’s so absent, she doesn’t realize what’s happening on her desk while she’s gone. 

  


  


—

  


  


  


It’s day four by the time she gathers the gumption to even look at the talisman again. She comes home from her classes, tired and with a headache. She grabs a bottle of water, slipping a couple of pills down her throat to calm the throbbing in her forehead. With the flick of her wrist, her lamp illuminates her desk. 

  


“That can’t be right…” she blinks her eyes twice, thinking that perhaps she needs to lie down. Her eyes are much more exhausted than she thought, and she silently curses those parties she ventured to. 

  


Too much tequila. Too much whiskey. That had to be it. 

  


With steady hands, Clarke picks up the rock and realizes it’s not as smooth as it was four days ago. In fact, it has very distinct writings on it now.

  
Well, not writings, but hieroglyphics. 

  


Raven’s not home, too busy preparing for a robotics competition, so she can’t yell at her for what’s sure to be a prank; but texting her is just as good. 

  


**[Clarke: 4:00]** _Please tell me you washed this while I was gone… [img 225]_

  


She sits back, dropping the talisman to her desk. Her phone lights up quickly in her lap. She sits back in her chair and slides her thumb across the screen, bringing her the response.

  


**[Raven: 4:02]** _Why do you always assume the worst in me, Clarke? I’m hurt._

  


**_[Raven: 4:03]_ ** _Ok, no but for real. I really didn’t._

  


**[Clarke: 4:04]** _Well, this is definitely weird then._

  


Clarke grimaces before picking it back up again and feeling the new edges of the relief born into the surface. A chill runs through her spine, as her phone vibrates intensely with a phone call. Raven’s name flashes across the screen and she slides to answer. 

  


_“We’re getting a cat.”_

  


Clarke’s eyebrows move incredulously, “Well hello to you too.” 

  


_“No Clarke, listen, I’ve seen the Mummy_ ** _and_** _the Mummy Returns. I know how this shit works._ ” 

  


“Pray tell, oh wise one.”

  


_“Bastet, duh.”_ There’s a dramatic pause on the other end, and Clarke’s almost certain she hears Raven curse her under her breath, _“She’s the guardian of the underworld or whatever, so whatever voodoo shit is going on in your bedroom can have you, but I’m a minority, Clarke, I have to defend myself.”_

  


“With a cat?” 

  


_“With a cat.”_

  


As if that seemed to answer it. 

  


“Well, not that that’s not both super comforting and helpful, but I’m going to chuck it up to this having some good old fashioned air to breath and get on with my sketches.” Clarke’s about to hang up when Raven loudly gets her attention. 

  


_“Wait! Send me a close-up photo of the etchings on it. I’m sending it to Octavia. Maybe someone in the history department can tell us what you’ve got a_ ** _replica_ **_of.”_ Something about the way that Raven says replica unsettles Clarke further and makes her defensive. 

  


“Ok, well it is _just_ a replica, thank you. So I’m hanging up now.” She side-glances the object on her desk, second guessing her need to be indignant. “The picture will be on its way.” 

  


_“Yeah, well when Samara comes climbing out of it, don’t come crying to me.”_

  


Clarke hangs up just as Raven finishes and takes a picture, sending it before throwing her phone down nonchalantly on her bed. She hangs her head back over the back of her chair and releases a long, heavy sigh. After a minute, she glares at the rock and flips it around a couple of times trying to find a good angle with the lighting. Possessed or not, this was part of her workload. 

  


The carvings that appeared are very defined, deep, as if they had always been there. A squiggled line, atop what looks like a cleaver, a box, and a seated canine figure. Clarke pulls her laptop out, opening it to a google search of hieroglyphics. 

  


There’s an alphabet that she tries to follow, but not much makes sense. Then she googles popular combinations of hieroglyphs and finds something similar just as her phone starts ringing. 

  


“Hello,” she distractedly answers it from her bed, not bothering to check caller ID. 

  


_“Clarke, it’s Octavia. Raven sent me a picture of a talisman you have?_ ”

  


Clarke smiles, realizing Octavia’s using her business voice and must be with her mentor and professor Indra. 

  


“Hey, O. Yeah, it's just a replica of some kind. I'm trying to get more information on it for my project. Get a feel for it, you know?" By now, Clarke's in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of red wine. She leans against the counter with her phone up to her ear. She fiddles with the glass, twirling the rouge liquid around, watching the legs of the win stream down the glass, clinging to its edges. 

  


Papers ruffle around on the other end of the line and she can make out the distinct sharp voice of Indra, coaching Octavia through the pages before her. She’s taken a couple of history classes from the Professor and knows she’s no joke. _“After comparing the images to a few in the books, we think it’s a part of the Book of the Dead. It’s a really good replica, though. Anything specific you want to know about it?”_

  


A feeling of dread washes over the blonde as she finds herself alone in her apartment. Whatever that thing is, it gave her the heebie jeebies. “Maybe what it was used for, so I have some context?” 

  


_“Not sure.”_ Octavia somewhat distractedly muses as she flips through the pages of a book. _“There’s not a whole lot about it, in any scriptures or anything that’s been found. But it definitely looks like it has to do with Anubis. Maybe a reminder for a soul traveling to the afterlife, or a ticket for safe passage?”_

  


The cogs in Clarke’s brain start to turn as she thinks about how to present this object for her class. Maybe a nod to an ancient vanitas…but then she thinks about the fact that it could have been on a dead body, in a sarcophagus or whatever it was replicated from, at least. 

  


A cold chill passes through her as she takes a seat back at her desk. “Well, that at least gives me a good place to start. Thanks, O. I’ll call if I need anything else.” 

  


She can hear Octavia’s smile through the phone, _“Sure thing, Clarke. You should bring it by the department some time. It looks pretty detailed, so it’d be cool to see.”_ She assures her that she will soon and quickly hangs up the phone, taking a large gulp of her wine. 

  


When she sits the glass back down, a little of the wine sloshes out onto the talisman, seemingly seeping into the pores of the surface. Her eyes grow wide for a second, but she tries to push away the fact that a piece of plaster literally soaked up fluid like a sponge. 

  


The minutes fly by as she tries to commit herself to the task. She finds other pieces of moments and rarities that she’s kept in her closet from occasionally antiquing. She tries to put together a scene with jewelry, a fake skull and few worn antique decorative hair pins that will make it dramatic. 

  


But no matter what she tries, the piece feels out of place. She agonizes over the position of it, flipping it exactly five times to the left, searching for the right spot before flipping it two paces to the right. She tries resting it atop a small crafted altar with a piece of cloth draped over it for a more drastic effect, and finds nothing feels right. 

  


Never before has staging a portrait or painting been so difficult. It tires her out, feeling overcome with sleep. 

  


Clarke continues her antics for a while longer until she can’t hold her eyes open anymore, so she falls asleep at her desk. 

  


  


  


—

  


  


  


_BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP_

  


Clarke awakens to the angry sounds of her alarm clock, and she jolts her body upright, smacking her knee against the underside of her desk with a loud thwack. She curses under her breath, and stares at her alarm clock at her bedside, but it flashes “00:00” in large, ferociously red font. 

  


Could a clock even show that time? 

  


There is no daylight pouring in, and the sounds of thunder permeate the outdoors. 

  


Her senses rush towards her all at once and she is greeted by overwhelming heat, humid and stuffy throughout her apartment. Her right arm sears in pain and burns beneath her sweatshirt sleeve. She clumsily walks to her bathroom, lifting her shirt off careful to avoid her arm. When her shirt is removed, the whites of her eyes overtake them. She stares in the mirror in shock with a slack jaw. 

  


She has a tattoo. (Something other than the little peace sign on her wrist she got while she was drunk that one time in Vegas.)

  


It's not tiny and it covers her entire bicep. It's intricate and swirls in interconnected waves of tribal set up like the tops of columns of the Romans. She runs her hand over it shakily, feeling how tender the skin is in its red and blotchy state. 

  


How is this happening? Is she dreaming? She's definitely dreaming. 

  


Resigning herself to the fact that this has to be a dream, she pads her way back into her room and wraps herself in blankets. 

  


She tries to block out the overwhelming sweltering heat of her room by pretending it's not real, but the ache of her tattoo seems to beckon her towards the door. She huffs, throwing the covers off, and checking for any signs of a Mummy come back to life to claim her soul. Feeling good about her chances, she gets up, aim set on the door. As she quietly travels to her door, she's met with a feeling of trepidation and fear. It's a dream, so anything could be waiting on the other side. Something, someone, anything could be out there. 

  


She chances a glance to her desk and realizes there's a pulsating light emanating from the carvings on the talisman. She's obviously worried about the true meaning of the piece and stressed out about the implications of never finishing her project. That has to be it. Because this is so _obviously_ a dream. 

  


After she's finished finding every hidden Freudian meaning behind how bizarre her perceptions currently are, she trains her ear to the door and hears faint whispers in another language. It's languid, far-reaching, ethereal in nature. It's like a beacon to pull her closer to the source and now her body reacts once more, her arm pulsating with a heartbeat of its own. 

  


Slowly she takes a deep breath. Whatever is on the other side of her door will be a figment of her imagination. Simply not real. Who knows, maybe she'll wake up right as she opens it. That happens a lot in dreams right? 

  


A particularly loud blast of thunder pushes her back into what she's currently experiencing, which she refuses to call reality. Because she is dreaming _so hard_.

  


Resolutely, she grasps the knob and turns it. The door opens with its normal squeak and groan as the wood rubs against the frame agitatedly. There's steam rising from around her couch and it's perplexing and she almost shouts fire, but as she moves closer she can see the faint silhouette of something, someone. 

  


A blast of lightning lights up the sky outside and bleeds between her blinds into the room. The steam clears just at the right second as she's met with the figure of a tan, naked woman with green eyes that shine through the darkness and long, flowing brown waves of hair. 

  


"Somebody pinch me." Clarke slurs in disbelief. She falls to the ground, overcome with dizziness and blacks out. 


	2. The Seeker and the Giver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The identity of the stranger is revealed and Clarke goes on a rollercoaster ending in bacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Sorry this took so long. I graduated college, started working more. Life....yeah, No real good explanation other than I changed the progression of the story about 40 times and rewrote this chapter. Bare with me. That being said, thanks for the interest in the first chapter! I hope this does not disappoint.
> 
> Mistakes are mine as I have no beta. Be kind. (Forgive the terrible formatting this is bound to have)

Hot, sticky, uncomfortableness settles all over her bones. Her arm radiates its own heat and the blood pumps furiously like an angry heart beat through it, jarring her head back to reality and bringing her world back to focus. 

  


Thank god this had all been a dream, right? 

  


Clarke blinks, finding the ceiling still in tact. If nothing else, the roof hadn’t left her. That was a plus right? The eerie quiet and terrible heat are great signs that everything is _peachy_. 

  


Clarke’s mouth is dryer than she can ever remember and her head hurts worse than any hangover she can ever recall. She raises up from the floor, feeling a bruise forming on her shoulder where it must have hit the floor. Her living room is smoky, but the smoke is low-lying, undisturbed. Her electricity must be out because the lights aren’t on any more and there’s a darkness that seems endless beyond the windows. 

  


She groans, and raises herself up higher to her feet, before two strong arms reach for her through the smoke and help to pull her up. 

  


“Raven, thank god,” she starts, eyes closed and brain suddenly super charged with questions. “How long was I out for and what happened?” And then suddenly, she’s staring into green eyes that she doesn’t recognize but instantly feels the air leave her lungs. They’re bright, beautiful, and they're searching right through her. 

  
Suddenly, the only sensible, right thing to do is scream. So she does just that. 

  


She jumps back as far as she can before she feels the wall behind her. The woman doesn’t appear startled at all. The fog seems to settle right over the woman’s breasts and pelvis, giving her a modicum of decency and if Clarke weren’t so frightened that her dream was in fact, super real (as in standing in her living room real), she would find it within herself to laugh. However, she can’t laugh. She can’t do anything, but quietly walk over to her door, jiggling the locks to see that they are undisturbed, and completely locked. 

  


She silently walks through the fog, leaving a wake as she checks the windows in every room, even those in Raven’s room. When she comes back to the room, the mysterious, absolutely stunning woman is still standing there, the picture of perfection. Her hand twitches with the desire to paint the low-lit figure, sculpt it from clay, write a song about it. 

  


Her beauty is boggling. 

  


The woman shares an uncomfortable silence with Clarke, simply gazing into her. 

  


Seeking to break the spell she feels cascading on her, Clarke narrows her eyes, and shouts for Raven. 

  


“Raven!” Her arms push towards the ground, tightly held to her side. “Raven, this is not funny!” 

  


No response. The woman continues to stare right through her. 

  


“When you said you were going to hire a stripper, I didn’t expect this, and it’s a few weeks early. So ha-ha, super funny, the gig is up.” She walks around the room, circling the woman. As she walks around, the woman cranes her neck to watch her wordlessly, and then she smirks. 

  


In a language she’s never heard before, she hears the woman presumably taunt her. At least that one linguistics class she took could tell her that this lady—this goddess in her living room was amused by her discomfort. 

  


Clarke Griffin would have none of that. 

  


“Listen here, lady, you come into my house. Do some fancy light show I can’t figure out, and you think it’s funny? Trespassing is a _crime,_ and I have half a mind to call 9-1-,“ she can’t quite get the word out completely before the girl is flat out laughing. She’s laughing a free, uninhibited laugh that sends a spark down Clarke’s spine. 

  


“Do you even speak English?” No response. 

  


“Who are you?” 

  


Then she says something else unintelligible before Clarke shakes her head and points down to puffs of fog clinging to her skin. “You’re some kind of magician? How are you doing that?” Completely forgetting about the trespassing it seems, Clarke is left aghast when the woman smirks and snaps her fingers. The fog falls to the ground, dispersing into what’s left standing in the room and suddenly she’s completely naked. 

  


“You’re bare-ass naked.” Clarke says, all slack jawed and a little in awe of everything this lady has going for her. She doesn’t know what else to do. What even is happening with her life right now?

  


She can’t quite get her bearings when there’s a sudden knock at the door. A streak of panic runs through Clarke as she grabs the afghan from the couch and hands it to the still smirking woman. 

  


“Campus police, open up!” 

  


“Oh my god, cover yourself.” Clarke frantically tries to cover the woman in front of her before pushing her to the couch. “Just sit here,” she demands. Of course she has no clue if this woman will actually listen. She’s naked, she’s trespassing, she’s beautiful, but she can’t understand a word she says. 

  


Irrelevantly, Clarke tries to smooth her hair down so she doesn’t appear as frazzled as she feels inside and answers the door. 

  


“Clarke, good to see you tonight.” It’s officer Bellamy Blake, Octavia’s older brother. 

  


“Bell, hey. What’s up?” She nonchalantly leans against the door frame, prepared to give her best performance that everything is super normal and not at all strange inside her four walls. 

  


“Got a noise complaint and when I saw the address, I thought I’d personally come check on you. Everything ok? Someone said they heard screaming.” Bellamy closes a little distance between himself and Clarke, trying to peer inside. With wide eyes, Clarke looks down and realizes the fog is seeping from her door and she shuts it quickly and unceremoniously, nearly knocking herself out of the doorway and onto the walk way. 

  


“Nope, everything’s totally fine. You know, just—“ She peers out of the corner of her eye to the window by the door. The blinds are split, the woman is peering from inside through a crack. The afghan has fallen from her body leaving her completely naked. Clarke frantically blinks trying to tell her to go away. Bellamy looks towards the window, and Clarke throws herself in front of the it, assuming a leaning position against the brick of her building. “Just you know, having a scary movie marathon and freaked myself out a bit.” 

  


Bellamy’s eyes narrow, “you hate scary movies, Clarke.” 

  


“No, that’s a lie. I love them.” 

  


“You saw a trailer to _The Others_ and you couldn’t sleep alone for 3 weeks. A trailer, Clarke.” 

  


“I was eight years old, Bellamy.” 

  


Bellamy shifted his weight and leaned back, still looking at Clarke through narrowed eyes, “why the change of heart?”

  


“I’m on a dare. Yup, poor art student.” 

  


“You live off of a trust fund.” 

  


“Bellamy,” Clarke says warningly. 

  


His arms fly up in surrender and he takes a few steps back, suspiciously eyeing the window behind her. His regulation combat boots scuff at the damp concrete and he sighs heavily. 

  


“Fine, fine. If something gets too scary in there you call me though, ok?” Clarke could tell he obviously didn’t believe her, but she nods anyway and waits for him to walk down the path to the parking lot where she can see the Campus PD cruiser parked with the lights on, roaming through the air. 

  


Clarke lets a breath escape she didn’t realize was holding onto and turns back inside. The girl is up and unabashedly walking around her apartment completely stark naked. 

  


“You have got to stop that,” Clarke says as calmly as she muster and goes to her room to find clothes. When she returns with some oversized sweatpants and a tee shirt from presumably middle school that has Lil’ Bow Wow the rapper on it, the woman looks perplexed. 

  


“What is it? Don’t pretend you didn’t listen to Bow Wow when you were a kid.” Clarke glares down at her before realizing she has no idea why she has to get clothed. It’s then that Clarke sees the mark on her arm. It’s exactly the same as the one on her arm. 

  


Without skipping a beat, Clarke lifts her sweater over her head, not caring that she is only in her bra. She doesn’t notice the way the woman gives her chest attention or how she startles slightly at her sudden actions. Clarke gestures towards her arm and then the woman’s arm, her finger wagging through the air between them. 

  


“How did I get this? How did you get this? Why do we have it?” 

  


Clarke lets out an exasperated sigh realizing the girl had no idea what she was saying. Maybe first it was a good idea to get some clothes on the other girl. 

  


After struggling to show her how pants go on, Clarke is having serious doubts about the mental state of the girl on her couch. With that in mind, she decides to try to get some information. 

  


Finally clothed and a little grumpy, the woman before her turns to Clarke when she comes back from her room with a drawing pad and a pencil. She sits down on the couch with urgency and faces the woman. 

  


“Alright, let’s try the basics. What is your name?” Clarke looks at her dad’s wrist watch. It’s late, around three in the morning. Raven must have hooked up with someone if she isn't home already. She would have time to figure this out. 

  


In regards to her question, the woman stares blankly back at her. In her bow wow shirt, eye brows cocked, she looks a little ridiculous and the whole scenario makes Clarke burst with laughter. 

  


She laughs until there's truly no mirth present and she exasperatedly sighs while digging the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbing harshly. 

  


“Ok, I'm Clarke and you are—?” She pauses for effect. 

  


The woman just stares back, unblinking but clearly becoming less amused as time passes. 

  


“Let's try something else. Where are you from?”

  


She is greeted by an even more confused look and an undoubtedly adorable pout.

  


“Are you sick or injured?”

  


Nothing. 

  


“Back to square one,” she all but huffs out. 

  


Clarke takes her pen and scrawls out her name in exaggeratedly large letters and hold the paper to her chest. The woman peers at it for a few seconds and then Clarke is handing over her pen and paper. 

  


She stares at the pen, down to the paper and then back to Clarke. 

  


“Your name goes here.” Clarke impatiently taps the paper with her index finger. 

  


After a moment, the woman begins to write. Clarke can't quite see from the angle she's sitting and how the other girl is hunched over with effort like it's the first time she's ever picked up a pen. 

  


Clarke is just about to remark about how unconventional all of this is when the other girl suddenly holds up the paper.

  


There, on the very paper she'd given her were the same hieroglyphs from the stone in her room. 

  


— —

  


Clarke really isn't sure what to make of her life today. Everything seemed so completely normal up until now and she really didn't know how to handle all of these curve balls. It was really enough to stress someone out and how was she supposed to deal with this all by herself?

  


After sprinting into her room with her heart hammering through her chest, Clarke had showed the talisman to the girl. She had a mixture of guilt, anger and relief show in her features immediately. However, it wasn’t until she handed the talisman over and their hands briefly touched that her life got completely weird. 

  


Clarke is in the school of thought that cliches and magic just don't exist. Their cheesy and unbelievable and fairy tales aren't realistic. 

  


But when they touched she felt it. 

  


The spark. 

  


It was real, it was coursing through her body and it was electric. All of the cliches intended and felt, one hundred times over. She didn't care how ridiculous it sounded but she was ready to turn over a new leaf on her thinking. 

  


Now despite that, this isn't the romantic kind of spark, immediately. This is something even more. It is a connection, complete and whole and other worldly. It causes her blood to warm, her heart to quicken and her body to become alive. Her tattoo, still raw and painful, pulsates with this new connection and Clarke is only awakened from her experience by a loud gasp beside her. 

  


The talisman is hot beneath their fingertips and they both drop it to the couch as if it's on fire. 

  


Suddenly, the girl jumps back, as if burned and clutches her hand to her chest. 

  


“You…are…Clarke?”

  


Those three simple words are small, almost frail sounding from her tentative lips but they ignite something within Clarke that scares her. It brings her comfort and discomfort, all at once. A hot and a cold paradoxical rush through to her very core and it's perplexing to say the least. This person stays a stranger while becoming very familiar in the same beat.

  


There's just something about the way she says her name that makes her body a little more alert, a bit more excited. Like hanging off of a cliff wall without fear of falling. A little exhilarating. 

  


Without much decorum, Clarke just scrunches her nose while touching her fingertips together. 

  


“Ok, this is getting weird.”

  


She shakes her head, watching the girl before her come to her better senses. It's as if she's just discovering that she's alive. Her face shifts from curious to somber quickly, though, and Clarke can feel the air shift around them to something charged, slightly dark. 

  


“We don't have much time.” The stranger says, eyes fixed on Clarke’s very own like a stone boulder. 

  


And in that moment Clarke becomes very sure that her life has changed completely. 

  


— —

  


T

“Now hold on just a minute,” Clarke can barely follow the girl as she digs through her things, in search of something. _Her_ things. She's starting to pick up on the panic from her…she still has to figure out what was going on here, maybe her tattoo partner in crime? The scary part about this is that she feels the panic set into her own bones as if she's experiencing it herself. 

  


“I said, what year is it?” The girl reiterates in a hurry as she seeks for something familiar. 

  


“It's 2017, did you fall and hurt your head? I don't understand what's going on. Like, who even are you?” Clarke’s shoulders slump in complete confusion, but then she has an idea. “Wait! Don't tell me…” the girl stills and looks to her from a dirty clothes basket. What she could even be looking for in there is beyond Clarke. A long pause goes by as Clarke considers her next move. “I've seen this before on tv…”

  


A little more time passes, the stranger’s face contorts in confusion. 

  


“You're Doctor Who.” 

  


“Who?” 

  


“Doctor Who.”

  


“Who?” 

  


“Doctor. Who. Come on?” 

  


Nothing. 

  


Clarke wiggles her legs in frustration. Seriously, was this girl born under a rock? “You know, the Time Lord who travels around to different eras. Where's your T.A.R.D.I.S?”

  


“Tar…dis…?” She slowly drawls in question, completely dumbfounded.

“Ok just stop looking through my laundry, God. Just stop for a second, ok?” Clarke grabs the girl by the shoulders to get her to look at her. 

  


“Seriously, where are you from?” 

  


“Cairo.” 

  


Clarke opens her mouth to speak, then closes it, then opens it again. 

  


“As in Ohio?” She’d ventured down the Wikipedia wormhole while looking up Lima, Ohio from Glee. This girl didn't really strike her as someone from Ohio, but to be fair, she'd never really met anyone from there. Californians probably had a skewed perspective on that kind of thing. 

  


“Cairo, Egypt.” She hurriedly looks around the room, spotting a globe in the corner. She plants her finger on it right over Cairo. 

  


“Ok…” Clarke muses, “so you're an exchange student?” 

  


“No.” 

  


“Uhh then, you're just here on vacation?” 

  


Frustrated, she picks up the talisman from the floor in the other room, “no, Clarke you do not understand. I came from here.” 

  


Clarke snorts. 

  


“I thought we were passed this.” Obviously, she's trying to convince herself more than this other girl, but it's still worth a shot. 

  


She grows even more agitated, putting her hands in her dark locks, clenching and pulling in frustration. 

  


“Clarke, _please_.” Her voice is pleading, the temperature in the room seems to be getting hotter and her arm begins to pulsate again. 

  


Clarke’s spirit falls a bit as does her resolve, so she finds herself unable to say no. 

  


“Alright, I'm sorry. Let's start over.” She brushes her palms on her shirt before extending it out. “My name is Clarke, and you are?”

  


The other girl doesn't falter, grabbing Clarke’s entire forearm in a tight, sturdy grip. “My name is Lexa, but I was once known as Anubis.”

  


“You, what?” 

  


“We cannot get into the details, we don't have much time.”

  


“Okay, you keep saying this, and I'm really not sure how much longer you think I'm going to buy into this prank of yours, but I have had it up to he-“ she’s in the process of a grand charade with her hand, voice getting higher as her anger grows, when suddenly her words are cut off. Eyes wide, she tries to speak again and finds she has no voice. Not even a croak. 

  


“I am sorry to do this but you _must_ listen to me.” Clarke’s eyes widen even more so, if possible and the tattoo on her arm lights up for an instant. This girl, _Lexa,_ walks into her house, trashes the place looking for something, spewing her crazy talk and now she steals her voice. Because that's completely normal. 

  


Lexa ignores Clarke’s expression and continues, “By summoning me you have started a chain reaction of events that cannot be stopped. If you do not heed what I say, you, others, and even myself could be in grave danger.”

  


She moves to the window in long, quick strides. Clarke notices she is rooted to the spot, unable to turn her head to follow her path. Lexa peers out through the blinds, in the distance, just beyond the glow of the city, she sees it. 

  


A massive green portal plagues the sky, open, weeping and draining white light into the darkness of the night. 

  


“Damn it!” Her hand meets the wall in a fist loudly. 

  


Clarke feels her body tingle and movement returns to her limbs, she scratches at her throat, coughing as she regains her voice. It's raspier than before when she speaks, “what's going on?” She looks passed Lexa’s shoulder through the open window and gasps. 

  


“We were too late.” Brown hair cascades down dejectedly. “The souls have already reached this world. Why didn't you join me with the Rite sooner?” Her demeanor shifts from hopelessness to anger so quickly, it gives Clarke whiplash. “If you sought to summon me, you must have known about this curse!” She nearly shouts the accusation. 

  


“Summon you? I was trying to draw this _stupid_ thing.” She chucks it across her room with ire, only to find that it stops in the air. 

  


Clarke’s normally a pretty low-key person, not quick to anger, generally pretty laid back, but this was one of those moments where she is definitely ready to freak out. After debating the thought of pinching herself until she couldn’t stand it anymore, Clarke resigns herself to the fact that this is all very real. 

  


There's really a portal of demon-soul-people flying out from the sky, there's really a woman using magic in her bedroom (she’d said that once or twice in her life in place of something steamy but never quite so literally), and she's really mysteriously tied to said woman, who claims to be Anubis, from accidentally summoning her from a rock she'd received from her art professor. 

  


This is really happening. 

  


As if her whole world hasn't just turned on it's head, she can’t help herself from laughing. Clarke is losing her mind with jovial, unabashed, uncontrollable giggles. Lexa is none too thrilled. 

  


“What could possibly be so funny?” The agitated woman levitates the talisman back to her hand gingerly, like holding a babe. 

  


“It’s just…the irony of it all,” she's grasping at her knees, doubled over and tears are coming from her eyes. She's barely able to make it through her next sentence, “you’re the fucking god of the underworld or whatever, represented by a dog…and here you are, wearing my fucking bow wow shirt.” She's losing her mind, really losing it.

  


Lexa looks as baffled as ever, looking down at her shirt. She’s about to retort when Clarke abruptly raises her hand to silence her..

  


“Let me have this one thing, _please_. There’s a portal of souls crying from the sky and you're a walking pun. Just let me have this moment.”

  


Lexa scoffs, cheeks reddened. It's been thousands of years since someone has made fun of her, maybe her nerves are a little raw. But she pushes passed the other girl, who is finally straightening up, and urges her to follow along. She has a lot to explain and not a lot of time. 

  


——

  


“So let me get this straight,” Clarke begins, flipping a pencil nervously through her fingers. “By summoning you, I've basically started a trial that lasts one whole year, and if we fail, we all die?”

  


“There's a lot more to it but essentially, yes.” Lexa nods resolutely, a bit solemn yet her eyes still hold a flame of defiance to them. 

  


“This is fucking crazy,” Clarke rubs her hands over her face and sighs, “And this all started why…how?”

  


“I was cursed, remember? Cursed to live my life trapped within that talisman. Only one seeking immortality could bring me into the world. But breaking this curse,” she pauses and chews on her words before she continues, “…this curse is broken at a great cost.”

  


“You’re a really vague person, you know that?” Clarke asks, not expecting an answer. To Lexa’s credit, she raises a challenging brow, so Clarke gives up. “…and this whole thing?” She gestures to her arm. 

  


“We are bound together.” Her green eyes bore through Clarke’s and her stare is rock-solid. 

“Your tattoo is that of the seeker, and mine, the giver. Intrinsically the same, yet different only in name. For you who seeks much must also give much and bear this curse along with me.”

  


“This is so bizarre.” Clarke blinks slowly, unable to comprehend it all. “You have to give me a minute, it's just a lot to take in.”

  


Lexa nods quietly. “Do not dawdle, the trials will be illusive. We must seek them out and accomplish them together.”

  


Clarke glances down at her wrist watch, ticking away like life hasn't become completely different. Like things aren't falling from the sky and she's not the one hope that this side of the Earth has of surviving. 

  


She takes a deep breath, sparing a glance to the sky from her window. The sun is about to rise, it's nearly four in the morning. It's time to make a decision. 

  


“Two questions,” she raises her index finger, “One: can everyone see the green swirl eating the sky out there?” 

  


Lexa’s she of her head is enough to answer her but she also supplies, “No. Only those who have the gift.” It only serves to perplex Clarke further. 

  


“Alright, I’ll follow up on _that_ later. So next question. If I'm the Seeker, does that make me in charge?” She's smirking before she can catch herself. 

  


“While I do not appreciate your tone, you are…more or less.” Lexa’s eyes fall to her knees, not meeting Clarke’s at all now. 

  


“Don’t worry, I'll try not to abuse that too much.” Her stomach growls at the end of her statement, and Clarke blushes. “But my first act as Seeker is to get us breakfast. You owe me a lot of explanations and I need coffee and bacon.”

  


“Clarke this is hardly the time t—“ 

  


“Hey now, we can't exactly save the world or whatever on an empty stomach now can we?” 

  


“Speak for yourself, I do not require sustenance.” Despite her objections, Lexa finds herself rising to her feet. 

  


Clarke walks her towards the door, both clad in their terrible outfits, she puts her arm around Lexa’s shoulder. She hears a growl of protest before she speaks, “see all I'm hearing, my friend, is that you've never been to Waffle House at 4 am.” She pats her back for emphasis, “good news though! Your luck’s about to change.” She pauses, grabbing her keys, thinking about Raven and how much that whole line of thought sounded like something she would say. 

  


“Turns out we are perfectly dressed, too!” It’s 4am, she’s doing her best here. 

  


Never, in a thousand years, did Clarke ever think that in the middle of a possible raging apocalypse, she would be taking and Ancient God to breakfast. But as this trial would soon illustrate, life is full of surprises. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourselves kiddos, we're gonna get into it. I've got the pacing all outlined, so we should be good from here. Still can't promise particular times for the update but I promise to not go 6 months again.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally woke up from a dream about this and realized I needed to write it. It's been really fun to write so far. 
> 
> Updates shouldn't be expected super regularly since I'm balancing work and my last semester of school, but I'm enjoying this so far so who knows. 
> 
> For those that follow my Star Wars themed story space is not infinite, I'll be posting the next chapter soon. 
> 
> You can find me at isoncedyou on tumblr. Stop by and say hi.


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